


Do You Take Song Requests?

by Pirateweasel



Category: Batman - All Media Types, The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Plot bunnies made me do it, time for potentially the worst sing-along ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pirateweasel/pseuds/Pirateweasel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker has a question for one of the other inmates of Arkham Asylum.</p><p> </p><p>The songs/artists/works referenced in this work are not mine.<br/>As always, I own nothing but my hat...</p><p>This was meant originally to be a one-shot until one of my friends read it on my laptop and said, grinning..."This is great!  When does the next chapter come out?"  Wulfgar, Dawn-Marie...this is all your fault; you fabulous betas, you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The light in the cell block came on with a low, buzzing hum.  It would slowly work its way into you throughout the day, until you were certain that when you laid down to sleep at night and the lights shut off, that buzzing hum would still be inside your bones; a faint vibration that would make its way into your dreams and taint them with a film of sound that kept you from truly resting. 

In his cell, the Joker blinked his eyes open to see the familiar cinder block and concrete walls that surrounded him; their surface pitted from time and the efforts of previous occupants to leave something behind to mark that they had existed in this place.

Now, _that_ really was a joke. 

Existence…in this place?  No such thing. 

No one existed here.  They were merely waiting, their bodies in storage while their minds planned.

And such plans!  Escape, certainly.  But also theft, murder, revenge, fear, torment, and _FUN._   After all, the Joker reasoned, if it wasn’t fun...what was the point? 

The guards were walking down the aisle between the rows of cells, calling out to the inmates around them.

Get up!

_Why?_

Can’t sleep all day…get out of those beds and get moving….

 _What’s the point?  We aren’t moving_ anywhere…

In the surrounding cells the Joker could hear groans, whined complaints, and a few curses and threats as inmates began to rise from their bunks and move about their cramped cells.  Space was always at a premium in Arkham Asylum, and when you didn’t dare put more than one inmate in a cell…you made the cells half the size of the typical two-inmate cells.

One nearby cell, however, only had a few coughs and some throat-clearing coming from it as its occupant began the day’s routine.

The cell-block’s songbird.

No one really knew why she was down here, they had never heard of her when they were out in the ‘real world’, the world beyond the walls of Arkham Asylum; and none of the newer inmates—the ones who had joined their ranks after the songbird’s arrival—had heard of her either.

If they hadn’t heard of her before, they all heard her now.

She sang. 

All day, every day.  You never could tell what the next song would be, or if it would be the previous song again, like a cassette or CD stuck on repeat.  Pop, country and western, blues, old torch songs, jazz, even gospel came from the songbird’s cell.  The week that she had sung nothing but Disney songs had been kind of hard to take.  If ‘It’s a Small World’ had been sung one more time...well, it would have been very messy on the cell block.  And now she was getting ready to sing, again.

In a strange mood, the Joker leaned towards the songbird’s cell.

“Hey,” he called.  “Do you take song requests?”

The humming that had been one of the signs that the songbird was warming up for her day’s performance for her captive audience stopped.  There was a moment of quiet as he waited for a reply.

“What?”

“I asked if you take song requests,” the Joker repeated, patiently.  Honestly, the songbird had no idea how hard it was to act this calm and rational.  It went against everything that he felt should be normal.

“I heard you; I was just surprised.”  The voice was quiet for a moment before she spoke again.  “Why do you want to know?”

The Joker thought for a moment.  Why did he want to know? 

Asking her if she took song requests had been one of those ‘spur of the moment, why not?’ decisions that he often made.  It wasn’t that her singing was bad—not something that he would ever have paid to go listen to, probably no one else would have either—but it wasn’t like she had a voice that was screechy or painful to listen to, and she could carry a tune and stay on key. 

“Is the reason, um, important?” he asked, tilting his head in the direction of her cell.  “I just wanted to ask; that’s all.”

“Hmm.”

There was nothing more from the other cell for a while; and the Joker was thinking that if he wasn’t going to have his question answered, at least he had found out how to get the songbird to stop singing.

“What’s the request?”

The question surprised him.  Was she considering it?

“Chainsaw Juggler,” he said, naming the first song that popped into his head.  Not that she would know it, almost nobody knew of it and he’d never found anyone who had heard of it that knew the words—

“By The Four Postmen?”

She knew the song?  Oh, this was good.

“Yeah,” he answered, drawing the word out a bit.  “That’s uh, that’s the one…”

“The last time I sang that song, Dr. Chilton transferred facilities,” she told him.  “Went to work with serial killers in Baltimore, I was told.  Of course, it may be because I sang only that song for approximately three weeks in a row…”

This was better than good; this was wonderful.

“I’ll take the request.” 

The Joker could almost hear the smile in her voice.  What did that smile look like?  Was it as wide as his?  For that matter, what did she look like?

She continued speaking.  “Who knows…” she was saying now.  “…maybe we can get a sing-along started; have the others here follow the bouncing ball.  If you think you could find something to bounce...”

Oh, yeahhh…  He could find something to bounce.  So many things bounced…heads, hearts, livers…  Okay, maybe not livers.  But there were _plenty_ of options roaming the halls of Arkham. 

And then he heard it, slowly swelling in volume until it rang and echoed down the hall of the cell block; the sound rebounding from the pitted grey concrete walls that were never touched by the sun.

_What ever happened to the Chainsaw Juggler?  He was a good friend of mine.  And where did you learn to kiss like that said the man to his German Shepherd…_

 


	2. Sing or Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What landed the songbird in a cage at Arkham Asylum?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading this chapter, I highly recommend looking up images of Gericault's 'Anatomical Pieces', and Goya's 'Black Paintings'--specifically 'Saturn'. It helps the chapter to make a bit more--if more horrifying--sense.

The flashing strobe lights from the emergency vehicles outside the building reached in through the room’s windows; illuminating a nightmarish scene that reminded him of a cross between Goya’s ‘Black Paintings’ and Gericault’s ‘Anatomical Pieces’.

_Why had Alfred ever believed that he should be exposed to classical art when he was younger?  He had seen more things resembling this since he had pulled on the mask and cowl than that young boy would have wanted to know existed…_

The reason wasn’t the bodies that lay—most in one piece, although at least one was missing a limb or two—like driftwood that had washed up against the walls.  Nor was it the blood that was painted in broad swaths, strokes and splattered marks over the furniture and walls, soaking into the carpet until it squished around his boots on the rug and made slick trails that were settling into the joins of the floorboards.

No; it was the figure that crouched—humming quietly—in the middle of the room.

 

* * *

 

The police had been called to the building when a tenant in the building across the street reported hearing screaming…a lot of screaming.  When you considered that the neighborhood was practically controlled by a mob, the noise would have needed to be prolonged and incredibly loud for someone to decide it was worth the risk of calling the police.

 

* * *

 

His normally silent steps brought him closer…and then there was a slight scuffing sound as his left boot slid in a small puddle of blood.

The humming cut off abruptly as the crouched figure tilted her head to hear him better.

Batman froze and waited.  In front of him, a head turned slowly in his direction.  A hoarse but quiet voice asked, “Why are you here?”

The person in the center of the room twisted their body to be able to look at Batman clearly.

It was a woman…a girl, really.  She didn’t look old enough to be out of college.  Hair hung to brush its tips against her shoulders in thin ropes that were sticky with congealing blood.  There was so much blood soaked into her hair that Batman could not have identified the color even if the room had been brightly lit.  Every move of her head caused her hair to paint bloody smears against the skin of her face and neck.  Blue eyes stared up at him from a face that was almost a mask of red, the blood drying into the creases and pores of her skin; flaking away from the corners of her eyes and mouth. 

The girl looked up from where she still crouched on her heels—legs bare and torn t-shirt and simple cotton panties stained with even more blood—and repeated the question.

“Why are you here?” 

She looked up at him for a moment longer, and then her eyes dropped down to her hands.  More blood was drying on her hands, causing the skin of her left hand to stick in tacky patches to the straight razor that she was clutching.  She looked at the razor in her hand, holding it up as though she had just noticed it, and said, “I think I made a mess…I’ll be in trouble if my parents find out.  I’m supposed to keep my room clean.”

Are you going to tell on me?”  She sounded like a small child, worried about the possibility of being scolded and sent to bed without supper.

Batman looked around the room.  Dead eyes stared back at him emptily from slack faces; some bore marks from a blade—probably the razor  she was still holding—others held nothing more than emotions; anger, disbelief, fear.  Many of the faces he saw were familiar; well known to him as members of one of Gotham’s worst mobs.  Looking at the condition of the young woman before him, Batman was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  There were several reasons why a girl who should be worried about nothing worse than her next college exam would be covered in blood wearing nothing but a torn t-shirt and panties.  He couldn’t think of any that would have ended well for her.

“What did you do?” he asked her, his voice deep and gravelly.

“I made a mess,” she told him again. 

“Why?  Why did you make a mess?”

She scrunched her face up in distaste.  “They weren’t nice.  I was at a tea party with my friends…we were having fun, and there was music.  My tea tastes funny.  So does Sally’s and Cici’s.  I don’t like the way it tastes now.   And then the boys said we should go with them to a party.  I don’t like this tea party.  They made Sally and Cici cry; and then they were mean to me…”

Her gaze grew unfocused.  “They were mean to me; so I taught them how to sing.  Look!”  She held up the razor suddenly, causing Batman to take a step back out of her reach.  The girl didn’t seem to notice as she began to wave the straight razor around in the air in front of her.  “I’m a conductor!  They sang SO MUCH when I showed them how…”  The girl began to hum again, keeping time in the air with the blade in her hand. 

The girl was mad…whatever had happened in this room; her mind had apparently fled from dealing with it.  The thing to do now was keep her calm, and get her down to the waiting emergency response vehicles so that they could get her some help.

“It’s time to go,” he told her; the deep gravel of his voice strangely gentle.  “Let’s get you to someone who can help you…”

She stopped humming and waving her razor through the air, letting her hand fall to her side.

“Go? I can’t go…this is my room, where the boys sing to me.”  She looked lost for a moment.  “If I leave, they won’t sing anymore.  I’ll have to sing for them until they come and sing to me again…”

“Why do you have to sing for them?” Batman asked, curious as to the answer to his question.

Her eyes grew crafty as she narrowed them slightly, a small smile growing on her face.

“Because,” she told him, her manner that of someone confiding a great secret, “if they don’t sing to me…then they scream to me, instead.”

Batman felt a finger of ice trail down his spine at her words.  “It’s time to go,” he said again, his voice growing harder.  “Put down the blade and come with me…”

The girl looked up at him before rising as smooth and gracefully as a cobra in front of a snake charmer.

“I don’t want to go.” She smiled up at the masked face before her.  “I like it here; we can stay and sing all we want…Don’t you want to sing?”

“No.” Batman’s voice was unyielding now, his instincts warning him of danger.  “I don’t sing.  Put down the blade.  We’re leaving now.”

The young woman’s face distorted at his words. 

“I’ll show you how to sing!” she screamed as she launched herself at Batman, bringing the straight razor’s blade up to slash up across his chest and neck. 

Only his quick reflexes and training allowed him to react in time, moving back so that the blade came perilously close but did not touch him.  He brought up his gauntlet up to block the next slashing attack, and then struck her in the head with his other fist; his hand catching her in the temple and causing her to drop like a sack of meat— _butchered meat staring up at him with empty eyes from the corners of the room…I taught them how to sing—_ sprawled on the floor.

Batman checked her breathing to insure that she would not come to harm if unattended for a few moments; and then pulled her hands behind her back and fastened them with restraints to insure that no harm would come to the ones that would be dealing with her next. 

 

* * *

 

Less than a minute later…

“Gordon…”

Jim Gordon whirled around, almost hitting the police car he had been standing behind in his haste.

“Jesus!  Do you have to sneak up on me every time?”  The police lieutenant looked harried and worn as he glanced back towards the building that Batman had just been in. 

“We’ve got reports of screaming coming from the building; and it’s apparently been used a mob safe house.  I’ve got men still trying to break down the door and no one can find a supervisor or manager to let us know if there’s another way in—“

“There’s an entrance in the building to the right of it…a connecting door 87 feet past the main entrance,” Batman said, interrupting him.  “Sixth floor, third room.  You have what looked like five dead mobsters, maybe more.  There’s a young woman there…”

Gordon,” there was a pause.  “The woman…she needs help—professional help.  I think that she’s had a mental break.”

And Gordon…keep her restrained.”

The lieutenant looked over at one of the officers that were on the radio trying to get a building supervisor.  He waved the officer over, and then turned back to where Batman was standing.

The only thing there now was the mouth of an empty alleyway, trash and discarded paper being slowly pushed along in it by the sullen breeze.

“I hate it when he does that,” Jim Gordon grumbled under his breath, and then began walking towards the young officer he had signaled a few seconds earlier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up...the world's worst sing-along! Eventually.... I promise.
> 
> Oh, and after my beta buddies read this posting, I was reminded by Dawn..."Wulf said he wanted the sing-along. I said, 'That is the most disturbing thing I have read in a while..."
> 
> I stand corrected, and have updated this note to thumb my nose. :P
> 
> And now more information regarding the World's Worst Sing Along!   
> Send me your recommendation for the song choice for the 'World's Worst Sing-Along' AKA, what would an asylum filled with rioting insane killers sing as they make as their murdering way up and down the halls?
> 
> Full credit for song choice will be given to whoever recommended the chosen song.


	3. The World's Worst Sing-a-Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the World's Worst Sing-a-Long!  
> And the winner of the 'suggest the song for the sing-a-long' contest is....Protagonist of Life from FanFiction.net.  
> Everybody, follow the bouncing ball....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timing, the Joker thought to himself, was the key to a good joke.

* * *

* * *

 

“Thank you,” the Joker drawled out, as he slid his newest acquisition up his sleeve. It disappeared from site, held in place by the carefully folded material.

To anyone else, the Joker's shirt sleeves appeared to have been folded haphazardly to keep them out of the way. Only Joker knew how to arrange them so that some of his favorite toys could be kept on himself—in plain sight of the guards, if only they knew where to look—tucked away so that they could slip into his waiting hands at the right moment; remaining unseen and secure until then. A private little joke that never failed to put a smile on someone's face.

This latest item was the last one he required before making his—officially—unexpected departure from Arkham Asylum. He could leave whenever he wanted, now. There was nothing to hold him back...except possibly curiosity and boredom.

Arkham was boring—there was no denying that—and waiting around was pointless. He should make his way off to more interesting, more _fun_ places and people to visit. The news was filled with people he wanted to meet....

The Joker stopped, reflecting that there was one person in Arkham he still wanted to meet. The songbird had promised him a sing-a-long, after all. It would be rude to leave just before the festivities began. Joker had asked her almost a week ago if she still planned on having the sing-a-long. He had told her that he would find something to take the place of the bouncing ball if she did; he didn't like breaking promises of that sort. Man of his word, and all that....

Besides, it sounded like it would be fun.

* * *

 

 _Timing_ , the Joker thought to himself, _was the key to a good joke_.

In the end, he wasn't that surprised by the date and time of the performance; the songbird, like any true performer interested in perfecting their art, had chosen the venue and surprise guests carefully. Well, the guests were certainly surprised.

Showing real talent for timing during improv theatre, the songbird had picked the one night that the worst, most corrupt of the asylum's officials and personnel (a pack of killjoys, if you didn't cast them properly; the Joker thought) would all be able to join them. The first to be cast for parts in the sing-a-long had been the guards that had beaten the songbird four nights ago when one of the guards took offense at a song lyric.

The guard hadn't cared much for the first song of the sing-a-long, either.

In fact, the asylum's chaplain—a notorious lecher that welcomed all, no matter who or what gender, to 'partake of the church's boundless love'—did not seem to be enjoying it as it was repeated, either.

Personally, the Joker didn't think that the boys were doing that bad with the song. They were managing to stay on key, after all.

That was harder to do than it sounded, considering that at the moment they were dragging the chaplain down the hall that ran down the center of the cell block to the open cell door waiting at the end.

Killer Croc's cell.

Dear ol' Crocky could be heard all the way down the hall; throwing things that both clattered and thudded wetly when they hit the floor or walls while complaining that he was still hungry...

“ _I said, I wanted something filling...give me something fresh, with a bit of fat on it to chew...”_

Dear Crocky, such a hungry boy! Well, Joker's boys seemed to have dinner plans well in hand. He could hear them coming closer, raising their voices so the song could be heard better.

The chaplain, an overweight, florid-faced man, was struggling to get free—or stop moving down the hall, at least. The smooth leather soles of his shoes were scuffling madly on the worn brown linoleum flooring of the hall as he attempted to backpedal with every step forward. Large drops of sweat formed on his bald pate, occasionally running down into the thin, close-cut fringe of hair surrounding the dome of his skull, shining under the florescent lights as though he had been coated in a thin sheen of oil.

“You will pay for this, you blasphemers!” the chaplain was screaming, “God will punish you for this heresy!”

Or something along those lines.

It was hard to hear exactly what he was yelling with the boys singing at the top of their lungs. You really had to hand it to them, they were very good for untrained singers. Every word that they sang could be heard clearly.

“ _It's priest. Have a little priest.”_ the first one was singing.

“ _Is it really good?_ ” came the next verse, sung by the inmate with a grip on the chaplain's other arm.

“ _Sir, it's too good, at least!”_ the first inmate was singing again. “ _Then again, they don't commit sins of the flesh..._ ”

“That's a crock even Killer Croc can't swallow!” came a jeer from one of the cells they were passing in response to the latest verse.

“ _So it's pretty fresh..._ ”

Natural talent for singing, if you asked the Joker. Where had he recruited that particular member of his gang?

“ _Try the priest_!”

The chaplain and dinner party seemed to have reached their table; from the sounds of it, Killer Croc was happy with the meal recommendations. Hopefully, he would remember to tip his waiters.

There were so many different songs going on a once, it was hard to pick just one to listen to. The songbird had kept her word and managed to get the sing-a-long started; she didn't limit herself to just one song, though. She had picked several songs and taught them all to small groups scattered all around the asylum—not just on their cell block. It meant that when the sing-a-long began, control of the asylum had slowly shifted to the inmates instead of the officials. As the Joker walked past a gate closing off one of the hallways connecting the different cell blocks, he could see two inmates that he did not recognize. They were using a guard's head as a battering ram to try to open the lock on the gate separating two of the cell blocks. The inmates were singing 'London Bridge is falling down', keeping time to the music with every swinging blow.

“ _London Bridge is_...”

Slam!

“ _...falling down..._ ”

Slam!

“ _...falling down..._ ”

Splat!

“ _...my fair lady..._ ”

They might never manage to open that gate, but they had definitely opened the guard's brain up to new musical experiences.

Working away with a spoon at the chest of a clerk that would list restricted privileges on your file unless you told him where you might have stashed one of your stockpiles of 'pocket money', an inmate was bellowing off-key and tunelessly, “ _C'mon, take a piece of my heart, now_...sing louder, man! This is supposed to be **your** line in the song... _C'mon, you know you want to, if it makes you feel..._ ”

Now, that guy needed more singing lessons before the next sing-a-long was scheduled.

Only a few more cells until the Joker reached the one he wanted. He needed to meet and greet the composer and conductor of tonight's musical performance.

“Boss!” The voice came from the cell to his left. “Hey, boss! We got an issue...need ya' help with it; you always know how to deal with problems like this....”

Oh, his boys. Loyal like dogs, they were. Dumb as the flea-ridden mutts, too.

A quick step under the dulled lights of the cell and he was facing the problem. Two of his gang had managed to catch the shift leader for the guards; a big, muscular fellow that was close enough to Joker's height to look him in the eye.

Now, that eye was just too serious for words. This definitely was a problem. The boys had made a good start of things; they had dislocated his right shoulder—probably while subduing him—and instead of staring into a face that held an angry, red flush from the roots of his close-cropped red-gold hair, the skin of the guard's face was pasty-pale from pain.

Those faded blue eyes, while still too serious for Joker's taste, rolled wide and panicked as the guard made a sound. It might have been a curse, might have been a plea for mercy; it was impossible to tell while he was gagged with his own tie.

“...we've been trying, boss, but we can't get our song right. We can't follow the bouncing ball when it just won't bounce...”

The Joker flashed a hyena's smile, all teeth and silent snarl, giving his forearm the little twist needed for one of his tools to slide out of his shirt sleeve and into his waiting hand. The switchblade flashed in the light as he reached for the head guard's belt buckle.

“Of course the ball will bounce, boys,” he told them, watching the guard's eyes as the man gave a drawn-out, muffled scream of pain, “...you just have to take them out of the sack first....” The guard was still making noises, tears and snot running down his face as the Joker held up his hand.

“See?” Joker said, tossing the small, bloody piece of flesh out into the hall. “Bounces just fine, doesn't it?”

His boys beamed up at him.

“Thanks, boss,” the shortest of the two was speaking, “You always know how to handle these things.”

“That's what I'm here for, boys,” the Joker replied, “To do all that deep thinking for you. Now, carry on. I have someone special to meet.”

 

* * *

 

“Hello, beautiful,” the Joker said, appreciatively. He stopped in the open door to the cell and leaned against the doorway's steel framework, brushing his green-dyed hair back into order as he did. Thankfully, one of his boys had brought him some make-up they found in a cafeteria worker's purse; he would have hated to meet the songbird face-to-face without looking his best.

It wasn't that she was conventionally beautiful. Oh, she was pretty enough, in a bland, forgettable girl-next-door kind of way. Dull blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. Body wasn't too bad, though. You might smile as you passed her on the street and yet forget all about her before you reached the end of the block.

The girl might not be beautiful, but the songbird was stunning. You just needed to look at her from the right angles.

Not her face, but her work...she was truly an artist at her chosen field; turning songs into the glorious music of chaos. Look what she had accomplished tonight with one musical, some children's rhymes and a country-western tune or two!

Why, when Scarecrow had been spending time in Arkham they had a few discussions about whether or not it was possible to achieve chaos like this. Joker and that lanky nerd Crane had both agreed that it was; however, neither one of them had imagined that this wide-spread of an effect could have been caused by so little. It was like she had spooned out some fast-growing thing onto its favorite food...and then spiked its food with Miracle Gro.

What was it Crane had said...'a robust, fast-reproducing bacterium on an enriched growth medium...'? Yeah, that was it. Exactly what Joker had said.

Crane could go on with his technical terms and his 'observed effects of a tested hypothesis' all he wanted; Joker knew that if the two of them had ever run into each other as schoolkids...it would have been while sneaking into the science lab to shake the ant farms and see the insects scurry in panic. Crane, even as Scarecrow, was so predictable that it was almost tedious.

The songbird was a joy to behold in action. Watching and listening to her work, the Joker had seen a food-fight, learned of staff psychologists that had demanded to be transferred to avoid dealing with her, observed gleefully as guards lost control of inmates, inmates lost control of guards, and both parties lost control of themselves, only to have all of those incidents eclipsed by the on-going riot.

Even the Joker had gotten into the spirit of things, right from the beginning of tonight's riot!  
It had been a **lot** of fun checking to see what would bounce. He had been right; heads and hearts bounced just fine, livers...not so much.

It was impossible to get a really good look at the songbird as she sat on the bunk in her cell. Shadows cast by the bars and the frame of the cell's sink shrouded her. In the dim light, the Joker could just make out the songbird looking up at the sound of his voice.

“Hello,” she replied, leaning forward and out of the shadows. She was smiling as she did so.

And what a smile!

Not as wide as his, unfortunately— _although that could be easily remedied_ , whispered a little voice in the back of his mind—but with that same delightful shade of madness to its curves.

“Love your work,” he told her.

The songbird gave a small 'hmm' sound of acknowledgement and then seemed to ignore him, looking as though she was listening to something, some song or music that only she could hear.

The Joker felt his face wanting to twist into a frown. Of all the reactions he had anticipated, being ignored, even a little, was not one of them. There was something a bit off about this meeting, something that niggled at his thoughts that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He had thought about how to handle this meeting if she screamed, or yelled, or wouldn't stop her usual constant singing—

That was it.

The songbird was silent. The only thing she had said was a reply to his greeting. She always sang; non-stop, continuously, at times annoyingly...so why was she not singing now? The Joker would have thought this would be her big moment; that maybe she had planned a solo as a highlight to the evening's music. The woman sitting on the cell's bunk, however, seemed to have no interest in singing at all.

“Why aren't you singing?” he asked her, curious. Joker wanted to know the answer; he had to know what was more interesting to the songbird than singing.

She raised a finger as if trying to 'shush' him.  
“I'm listening,” she told him. “Can you hear it?”

He cocked his head.

“The sing-a-long?” he questioned.

The songbird shook her head. “My boys,” she said, happily. “They're singing to me again...”

Huh. Maybe the songbird had her own gang in here with her. He never would have expected it.

“Yeah, there's a lot of singing going on out there right now. What song are your's singing?”

She giggled at that. Giggled! Oh, Joker liked her even more for that giggle.

“No, silly, “ she said. “They don't sing like the inmates do...they sing like the asylum workers.” She turned away again, listening raptly to the 'songs' she was hearing.

He considered what she said for a few moments before realizing that she had never really answered his question. Why wasn't she singing?

“So, you're not singing because...?”

“Because I don't need to right now. I taught my boys how to sing, and now they are singing again...so I don't need to. I have to sing if they don't. I tried to tell the man with the bat on his chest this, but he didn't listen.” Her face was thoughtful as she added, “I should have taught him how to sing, too. That would have sounded nice.”

Joker's grin grew a bit more when he heard that.

She wanted to teach Batman how to sing? Batsy? That was something he would pay money to see...pay almost anything, actually.

Wait...the songbird had said that her boys sang like the asylum workers. The asylum workers and officials weren't singing—they were screaming.

She was saying she didn't need to sing as long as she could hear their screams.

Not that he didn't approve; however, the Joker had not realized that she was singing because she HAD to sing. He had thought that she was singing because it was fun.

No, this 'I have to sing' business sounded serious. Someone as talented as the songbird should only be singing for the fun of it.

“You make it sound as though you needing to sing is rather serious,” he remarked casually.

“It is,” she told him, not bothering to look in his direction as she spoke.

“Maybe what you need,” the Joker suggested, “is someone to help put a big smile on your face—like mine, for example.”

Now the songbird was looking at him, the tiniest beginnings of a smile on her face.

“Perhaps we can arrange a trade,” she said. “I'll teach you to sing...that always makes me smile.”

The Joker let out a soft chuckle. She was more fun than he had earlier realized!

“I'm not much of a singer. You might not be able to teach me.”

“I'm not much of a smiler...but you can do your best to change that.” The songbird was slipping further into the shadows as she spoke.

“Well then,” the Joker said, straightening up from where he had been leaning against the doorframe. “Let's get started, shall we?” He took the first step into the songbird's open cage.

 

* * *

 

It took almost three days—with Batman's help—to put an end to the rioting and chaos in Arkham Asylum and bring it back under the control of the authorities.

They had undertaken the assault in stages; bringing one wing at a time under control until they had all of the inmates in a cell. Perhaps not the correct cells; the 'clean-up' squads were separating inmates and moving them to the proper wings and cells in the asylum now. No one was looking forward to the final wing...that was where the worst offenders and the most insane patients—the ones that were just as dangerous—had been housed. Since the clean-up squads had not found them in the less secure wings it was safe to expect them to be in this wing unless they had escaped. If they had escaped, well, that would be the Batman's problem...not theirs.

 

* * *

 

The 'clean-up' squad members all returned; faces pale and shaken. A few of them had stopped mid-way through their reports to vomit; undeniably upset by what they had witnessed. The rumor was that those squadmembers had been in charge of dealing with Killer Croc and his cell.

On one side of the room, a squadmember had begun sobbing as he related what he had seen.

And then there was the last cell that they had checked...

It should have been the easiest of the cells; the one belonging to the patient/inmate that had been nicknamed the cell block's 'songbird'. She had never been violent in the entire time Arkham had been housing her. The worst things that the guards and officials had ever dealt with from her had been the songs; some of those songs were incredibly annoying.

But what they had found when they opened her cell....

None of the squadmembers would talk about it. They went white when asked and simply said that the helmet and body cameras would show everything. The sobbing squadmember on the other side of the room was the one they had pushed for more answers. He had described going through the wing, only to break down when he said he had been one of the first to enter the songbird's cell.

The asylum officials were frustrated. The body and helmet camera footage would take several more hours to be available. At the moment, the only information that they had regarding that cell came from a damaged CCTV camera in the hallway.

It showed the songbird still in her cell during the riot.

It showed the Joker entering the cell.

It didn't show who left....

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did!  
> The songs used in this chapter were: A Little Priest from 'Sweeny Todd' the musical  
> London Bridge Is Falling Down  
> Take Another Piece of My Heart by Faith Hill

**Author's Note:**

> The song 'Chainsaw Juggler belongs to the group, The Four Postmen; not to me.


End file.
